The dreams have been bizarre, and hyper-real, for months.
Almost always they're filled with people I don't know, in places I've never been.
People recognized him along the way, but kept their distance, maybe because he looked like a homeless person. Me, I just wanted to help him, and was glad to spend some time with him. In the way of dreams, it didn't seem odd that he was alive and walking with me, close enough to see the rough texture of his long canvas jacket. Oh, and the beard, which looked like the one he wore in "Good Will Hunting".
He wanted some Chinese food. We found a communal table, but not two seats together. I directed him to a chair opposite mine ("Why don't you sit there, Robbie," I said), and encouraged him to order whatever he wanted.
We sat and ate together for a while. Then, as dreams do, this one flowed on to something else I can't remember.
I had forgotten all about it until I stumbled across a tweet this morning:
"He offers me a faint smile. I am deeply grateful he is alive. It means a lot to me in this moment. Everything. As he walks away slowly I remember a year ago, when he came up and slapped me on the back gregariously, saying hello. "Survival doesn’t mean nothing died."—Sayed Tabatabai, MD